“Belle . . .” He takes a step toward me, then another, his chilly resolve crumbling as he draws near. “I don’t know where to start. About last night . . . about this afternoon . . . For forty years, I’ve been carrying this pain in my gut, blaming you, believing a lie. And all the time . . . I’m so bloody, bloody sorry. For not trusting you. For not believing you. And most of all, for the business with the damned story. I should have told you what I was working on. If I had, none of this would have happened. It was a stupid and selfish thing to do and I absolutely own that. But I swear to you,
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finally, this bullheaded man says sorry! fuck!
